The Continuing Adventures of Silver Volvo
Woe. Woe, oh woe. It had been weeks since I’d last gotten to cup those divine marble cupcake asscheeks of the dark and brooding one. He was all like, “Greenhouse emissions” and “smaller global footprint,” so he’d started running everywhere on those stupid skinny muscular legs of his, not like I cared. I once saw him eyeing a tarty little Prius as it sassed by all hybrid-like in front of the house. Back off, biznotch, I yelled telepathically to show that little whorish Toyota who was boss. But my territorial pissing didn’t seem to deter him from checking out her chassis as she sped away.
I tried to suck in my muffler and look as streamlined as I could whenever he walked by, but it was no use. All my pedals were dusty and neglected. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gotten revved good and hard. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be pounded again and again by the treads of expensive leather shoes. I was also overdue for my three-thousand-mile oil change, which did nothing to make me feel less self-conscious about that “not so fresh” feeling. Who’d want to look under my hood?
I had taken to sleeping as much as I could, moping about, staring off listlessly. In the dead of night, I felt someone wrap heavy, smooth cloth over my headlights. Is it the dark one? I wondered, as I felt my keyhole filled completely in a way I hadn’t been in ages. The key was rammed into my hole again and again until I nearly screamed from the intensity, riding the cresting wave between pleasure and pain. It had to be him. He was back—and … kind of kinky.
He wasn’t wearing anything as he sat in my curved bucket seat, and I groaned as I felt his cool smoothness. I hurried to warm his naked cheeks, but he flicked the seatwarmers right back off. Oh, it was about me, my pleasure then. He rubbed my dashboard raw with Armor-All, vacuumed up every last square inch of me until I thought I’d burst. Aside from his bare ass on my seats, he wouldn’t touch me except with gloves, nor would he let me see him. Even without the cloth covering my headlights, I probably wouldn’t have been able to see anything anyway.
Right when I thought I could take no more, he stopped abruptly, exited me. My seat cushions gasped at the sudden absence of his weight, but before I could protest more loudly, I felt something cold and hard, where his ass had just been: a parting gift? The pleasure of his release? Then he was gone, the cloth still covering my headlights.
He would be back for me soon … wouldn’t he?
I fell asleep, dreaming of chamois, when I heard his voice. “What the fuck is going on here?” Angrily he ripped the cloth off my headlights, and I squinted in the sudden sunlight. There he was, brooding and moody as ever, standing all tortured in the field of heather. His piercing gaze penetrated my window, and I blushed, feeling terribly exposed. How long would he continue the charade? We shared something, I willed him to hear, to remember. He gripped my door handle, jerking me a few times before my door opened. I couldn’t stand the look of disgust in his eyes as he examined my interior. What had I done wrong?
“Which one of you assholes took a dump in my car?” I heard him yell, and I wondered if this meant he wouldn't be taking me to the prom.
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